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beggingwolf · 5 months

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36!

things you said but didn’t mean

In the dingy little TSA office where they hide him away from the rest of Pittsburgh, Sid taps at the sides of his silent phone and looks at the grungy carpet. It's easier to feel like he's not staring at his phone if it's only barely in his line of sight. There's a dark stain by the corner of the unoccupied wooden desk. Coffee, if Sid had to guess. He'd had some this morning, even though he tries to keep his intake low.

Not that it matters—the postseason is over. Fucking Philly took care of that. Sid's job now is to go home, get drunk with all his buddies on the lake, and get ready for September.

Sid's phone jitters in his tight grip. He jolts, fumbling with it until he reads the text message lighting up his screen.

Boarding shortly. Crew will come to escort you to the tarmac.

Sid's face drops before he can straighten it out. Stupid, he tells himself, squeezing his phone so tightly he can feel the plastic creak between his fingers.

Geno won't text him. Geno hates texting. It's impossible to get more than a word out of him. It's funny how that works out, because as he scrolls back through his meager history with Geno, he can't see anything incriminating in the messages. It's just a lot of texting each other addresses, or times, or, memorably, Sid getting snippy at Geno for holding up the plane to Detroit. They text like coworkers.

If Sid lets himself fantasize like a kid, he can picture his phone lighting up with Geno on the other end. When Sid answers, Geno sounds so sincere that it makes Sid's chest constrict, his ribs crushing his lungs to pieces. Geno tells Sid that it's over with her, and that he's coming to the airport now, and he's going to get on that plane with Sid.

It's so childish that Sid, all alone in the beige office, goes red in the face. He's raw, all cut open from the last two days. He's like a little kid holding up his hands at the world and begging for something, big wet tears streaming down his face and soaking his collar.

Sid has always wanted things more than other people. But up until this point, they've been things he could get. He has his Cup. He has his gold medal. He has everything he could want, except Geno hasn't texted Sid in two days, and Sid can't take back what he said in Geno's foyer.

Sid wanted Geno to choose. Me or her, he'd demanded, and don't fucking call me again if you choose her.

Sid's gotten what he wanted. Geno chose. Geno isn't coming to Halifax.

Sid's sprawled out on his favorite lounger on the back patio. A half-empty beer is sweating condensation onto his bare stomach. Matt, a few chairs over, is snoring. They were too lazy to take the boat out again today; they'd barely gotten it docked last night, as shitfaced as they all were. They'd made do with Sid's backyard and his shooting pad. Sid's pretty sure Justin dented the siding of his shed with a shot that went disastrously wide, but he doesn't really care. He hasn't cared about a lot since he's gotten home.

He thinks his mom knows. She'd been looking at him funny at dinner last weekend. She's always been good at pinning him down like that, and he doesn't want to deal with it. He begged off lasagna night a few days ago. He has nothing to say to her, anyway. They haven't talked about it. Sid doesn't want to talk about it.

"Looking kinda pink, bud," Sid hears, and he blinks open his eyes to see Mike standing over him, leftover pizza box in hand.

Sid's heart goes off like a gun, and he pushes himself up, like sitting will make the blood rush away from his face.

"It isn't—" he starts, but Mike cuts him off.

"Do you even have sunscreen? You have to. Your mom used to be a warrior with it, fuck."

"Oh," Sid says. He tries to cook up something reasonable to say, something expected, something normal, but Mike just waves the pizza box at him.

"No thanks," Sid gets out.

"Your loss, man," Mike says, and wanders back to his perch underneath the patio umbrella.

Sid spends a few minutes trying to collect himself, and when that doesn't work, he goes inside to run his hands under cold water from the kitchen sink. His fingers are numb when he presses them to his cheeks, chasing the redness away.

Sid's never met her, is the thing. He knows she's been to Pittsburgh once or twice, but Geno was always careful in the way he was with the girls he liked seriously. He kept them away from the team, like the team seeing them would break the spell and turn the girls back into pumpkins at midnight or whatever. It was insanely stupid. It made Sid irrationally mad, because it was so easy to forget that Geno had a girl at all.

That was a lie he told himself, really, because if Geno had a girl, Sid knew. Sid knew because it meant their meetings in back corners of the arena and hotel rooms and Geno's big house stopped cold. It was the girls or it was Sid. Never both.

Most of the girls never lasted, though. None of them but Oksana.

She'd had Geno first, Sid reminds himself at his low points that summer. He's pounding grass beneath his feet on Citadel Hill, Andy's careful eye watching his lateral movements and the flexibility of his hips. That's good, because it means Andy isn't looking at his face. Sid can sweat it out, his face beet red, and Andy doesn't give a single shit.

"Alright, you can end on two more hill climbs or two more ab circuits. Your choice."

"The hill climbs hurt more," Sid pants.

"Hill climbs it is," Andy says.

Knowing Jordy is getting traded doesn't take the pain away when it happens. Not really. Nothing hurts quite as much as that first summer after Sid's rookie year, where he'd been blindsided by how nonchalant everyone was over the roster morphing into something wholly different, but it's a twist of the knife to see Jordy go.

The team's email chain goes crazy with goodbyes. There's an email from Geno in there. Sid's read it twenty, no, forty times.

He's gotten pathetic about it. He's considered sending Geno an email, or a text, or, fuck, a phone call. He's so drunk right now that it doesn't even feel embarrassing, because he's too busy wanting. He wants Geno now. He misses him. It's the longest they've gone without talking in a year, maybe two.

His carryon from the wedding is still packed, tossed at the foot of his bed. He'd gotten home a few hours ago. He misses the feeling of the team around him. He misses Geno. He's afraid of seeing him again. He's afraid of having to deal with the fact that he blew it.

He reaches into his slacks and gets himself off. It doesn't really feel good, except for the few seconds he can pretend Geno is there, curled around him, his mouth hot on Sid's neck, his pleased laugh in Sid's ear when he comes.

You not coming in for pre camp?

Sid's hidden in his parents' basement, tucked between the old EMT board his dad has inexplicably kept on the wall for years and the dusty old youth trophies from Taylor's midget hockey days. His mom had demanded he come over for dinner, but he'd been unprepared for Taylor to have a friend over. A guy friend. He looks like a little kid, because he is—spotty and with greasy hair—and Sid hadn't been ready to deal with it.

Looking at Pascal's text, he doesn't feel ready to deal with that, either.

I'll be in for camp. Couldn't come early this year. Family stuff.

It's easier to lie to people through text. That's part of the reason he's down here, instead of being social upstairs. He doesn't really want to see his sister's twerpy boyfriend. He doesn't want to know how his mom will look at him once she figures it out, because she always does.

Too bad, Pascal sends. Even Geno's here.

Sid sneaks out through the back door. He texts an apology to his mom. He looks up flights to Pittsburgh.

"Geno," Sid says carefully when they see each other again. They're in the locker room, surrounded by half a dozen other players. Sid's in his base layers. Geno's still in his street clothes. Sid doesn't want to stop looking at him.

"Hi Sid," Geno says, just as carefully. Sid has to work up spit into his dry mouth so he can keep talking.

"How was your summer?" he asks. "You didn't call."

"Little bit busy," Geno says haltingly. His gaze darts around the room, but no one is paying them any mind. Sid feels safe, cocooned in the familiarity of hockey and of the team and of having Geno watch him with curious eyes.

"Can you make some time for me?"

Geno looks him up and down. He's such a fucking mystery to Sid, and that's why Sid lov—

"I have time," he says.

"Good," Sid breathes out, his lungs filling deeply for the first time in months. "Good, me too."

#hockey rpf #sidgeno

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robsheridan · 1 year

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Poster for the unproduced 1984 live-action horror adaptation GARFIELD: FIRST BLOOD.

Following the success of CUJO in 1983, studios were scrambling to find the next hit “killer pet” flick. Notorious grindhouse auteur Ron Sharleton, seeking a big-budget movie deal to fund his struggling production of CANNIBAL QUARTERBACK 2, set his sights on the most unlikely of properties: Jim Davis’ beloved comic strip Garfield. Sharleton, a self-proclaimed fan of Garfield who called the strip “a subversive celebration of misanthropy,” believed an “alternative, adult” spin on the character could thrive in tandem with its kid-friendly cartoons. Describing his rationale in an interview later, Sharleton said: “You have all of these R-rated films that come out and become big hits and the studios want to suck every penny out of one idea, so they sanitize it and repackage it as a cartoon for kids. So I said, why can’t we do the reverse?”

GARFIELD: FIRST BLOOD was pitched as a dark, gritty reimagining in which the titular cat, pushed to the brink on a particularly bad Monday, finally snaps and kills Jon’s dimwitted dog Odie. As he tastes Odie’s blood, Garfield is overcome by how good it felt to put a permanent end to something that annoyed him. He then realizes that everything and everyone annoy him, and his murderous rampage begins.

Describing his take on the character, Sharleton said: “Garfield never really sat right with me as a children’s character. He’s so much darker, more complex. You have this cat who is filled with contempt; he looks at the world around him with radical skepticism and scowls at the prison of tedium mankind calls ‘society,’ and he responds with this very self-indulgent nihilism: Be lazy, be a glutton, don’t participate in anything because it’s all bullshit. Garfield looks at Jon waking up early on a Monday and putting on his tie to go to a job he hates, and he sees a pathetic fool. It’s all such a powerful rejection of the Reagan Wall Street capitalist disease that has poisoned the 80s. ‘Work hard, climb the ladder, buy a boat!’ Garfield says fuck that, stay home, eat lasagna, accept no master. But living as an iconoclast in a conformist world has filled him with all this tension. There’s anger in there, you know? So I wanted to examine what would happen if Garfield was finally pushed over the edge. Where’s the line between a passive nihilist and a violent anarchist?”

Warner Bros execs were intrigued by Sharleton’s pitch (and the lucrative cash cow of the Garfield brand) and funded a short “proof-of-concept” trailer, directed by Sharleton, to convince Garfield creator Jim Davis of the idea. The trailer reportedly went “all-in” on Sharleton’s signature “splattercore” horror, including a scene where Garfield grinds up Liz Wilson alive in a meat grinder and bakes her flesh into a lasagna he then serves to Jon. The presentation to Davis was described as “one of the most disastrously miscalculated meetings in modern Hollywood,” with Davis stopping the trailer midway to ask the room “are you people completely fucking insane?” before storming out.

Reflecting on the meeting years later, an anonymous former Warner exec said “we knew it was a long shot, but we really felt like the only way to sell the concept was to push it as far as possible. In retrospect I think yeah, we did let it go too far. We were so absorbed in it that we didn’t realize how jarring it would be for a guy like Jim Davis to just be thrown into this cold. I think it was a mistake to open with the Nermal blender scene, but we wanted shock, and we thought… I don’t know, everyone was doing a LOT of cocaine back then. Well, everyone except Jim Davis."

-----------

UPDATE: T-shirts and poster prints now available!

NOTE: This alternate reality horror story is part of my NightmAIres narrative art series. NightmAIres are windows into other worlds and alternate histories, conceived/written by me and visualized with synthography and Photoshop.

If you enjoy my work, consider supporting me on Patreon for frequent exclusive hi-res wallpaper packs, behind-the-scenes features, downloads, events, contests, and an awesome fan community. Direct fan support is what keeps me going as an independent creator, and it means the world to me.

#rob sheridan #nightmaires #garfield #alternate history #ai art #ai horror #synthography #synthography horror #writing #horror #80s horror #80s

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thatsrightice · 7 months

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Ron was in the elementary school when he first met Tom. The teacher introduced him as the new kid joining their class, asking everyone to welcome him with open arms. Ron looked at the name written on the board and just couldn’t help himself.

“Woah! You have a long last name!”

Tom didn’t respond, just kind of stared back until the teacher ushered him to an empty desk.

Tom was a quiet kid, kept to himself and never really spoke unless it was to answer the teacher’s question. He never really had any friends, mostly just read big books with small letters that made Ron’s head spin.

Jack took Ron’s spot at the lunch table one day so he decided to take a seat across from Tom. Ron thought Tom’s lunch box was cool and told him so. The boy’s eyes lit up and informed him it was a F-5 Freedom Fighter, saying that it wasn’t anatomically correct as its fuselage was far too long, whatever that meant, so Ron just smiled and agreed. They already had a Tom in their class and that’s when Ron decided to call him Tommy.

Ron always sat with Tommy at lunch from that day. They quickly became inseparable, doing everything together. Tom was crazy smart and knew everything about everything, especially planes, but he never really made Ron feel dumb when he helped with a long word or a difficult problem. They kept each other company, Tommy didn’t exactly have any other friends since moving and Ron didn’t have a need for any other friends. Tommy was his best friend, even when he talked about airplanes a lot Ron didn’t mind; he decided they were pretty cool too.

One day Tommy exclaimed declared that he was going to be a pilot in the Air Force when he was older, taking down bad guys and protecting the country. Ron was impressed as he didn’t even know if he was going to pick pizza or lasagna at lunch that day. Monday rolled around and Tommy showed up to school with a black eye and a new tune.

“I’m not going into the Air Force anymore,” he had informed Ron.

“Why?”

Tom shrugged. “I’m just not.”

Ron had a feeling he knew why. Tommy would show up with bruises once in a while, said it was from falling out of his bed or climbing a tree, and this time he was hit in the fact playing baseball. But Ron was confused because Tommy never fell out of the bed at their sleepovers and Ron was confident he was the best tree climber like ever. But Tom said he was okay and that’s all that mattered.

But Tom’s dad? That guy was scary. Ron had only met him a couple of times but when he did he wanted nothing more than to run away. Tommy was terrified. The look on his face when keys jingled in the lock was one Ron would never forget. They’d abandon their game and run to Tom’s room, a book shoved into Ron’s hands. They’d sit on the floor and read until the man paused in front of the doorway, nodding in approval at the two boys, and then proceeding down the hall out of sight.

Thankfully his father was away on trips a lot so Tom’s mom let him spend the night at Ron’s house sometimes! Tommy would always tell Ron that his mom was super cool and Ron would agree, his mom was the coolest. At one of these sleepovers Mrs.Kerner asked Tom what he wanted to be when he grew up, but Tom got quiet.

“He wants to be a pilot!” Ron exclaimed, but Tom shook his head.

“I’ve got to join the Navy, like him.” Like his dad, he meant.

“Well why don’t you be a pilot for the Navy?” Ron’s mom asked, setting a plate of apple slices and peanut butter on the table.

“But he said the Navy doesn’t need pilots.” Tom took an apple slice.

“Sure they do! Someone’s gotta protect those boats. You know, Ronnie, your great uncle was a pilot for the Navy in World War II.” Tom’s eyes snapped wide open, staring in awe at Ron.

“I can be a pilot and be in the Navy!”

“What about you, Ron?” His mom asked. “What are you going to be?”

“A pilot for the Navy. Then we could fly together!” he nodded firmly and his mom laughed. And he’d swear he’d never seen Tom smile that bright.

The happiness was short lived as about a month later Tom informed Ron that his family was moving again. He’d never seen Tom look so devastated.

Years went by and Ron moved on, as children do. When he hit senior year of high school it came time to decide what he wanted to do with his life, but he was stumped. He confided in his mom such thoughts one night while she was doing the dishes and she smiled warmly. That’s when she informed him of his longtime desire of becoming a Naval pilot when he was young, reigniting the memories of his best friend, Tom. “Two peas in a pod you boys were” she had said. Something clicked and he had made his decision, applying to the Naval Academy and getting accepted, much to his surprise. He hugged his mother, gave a tearful goodbye with the promise to call, and watched her leave.

“Excuse me.”

Ron turned around, a man stood in the doorway of the dorm across from his.

“F-14 Tomcat or F-16 Fighting Falcon?”

“Huh?”

“In a dogfight, who would win? The F-14 Tomcat or F-16 Fighting Falcon?”

“Leave him alone, Bill,” a voice from inside the room shouted across the hall. “We don’t even know what it’s capable of.”

Bill scoffed as he rolled his eyes but there was a smile on his face. He turned back to Ron and stuck out his hand. “Name’s Bill Cortell. And that a**hole is my roommate, Tom.”

“Ron Kerner.” They shook hands.

“So where are you from, Ron?” But before Ron could respond Bill’s roommate emerged from the room, leaning agains the doorframe.

“San Diego, California. Sunset Park Elementary School.” Ron just nodded, confused as fuck.

“Tom. Tom Kazansky.”

As they shook hands, Ron couldn’t help his grin.

“You have a long ass last name.”

The blonde merely raised an eyebrow with a smirk.

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greenerteacups · 15 days

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my heart aches for one Theodore Nott after reading the latest update 😭 GTC, could you tell us more about your thoughts on him, his characterizations, how you manage to write him so poetically and beautifully, and (a shot in the dark, but i'll bite) the role he'll play in books 5, 6 and 7? congrats on another chapter GTC, i love you tons 🩷

Thank you so much, friend. I love talking about Theodore Nott. I'll gladly bite on that question.

To start off, Theodore's middle name might as well be "THE FOIL," because everything about him is tailor-made specifically to Say Things About Draco Malfoy. He practically hands Draco a card saying "I AM YOUR JUNGIAN SHADOW SELF, PLEASE HANDLE WITH CARE" upon introduction. They meet when they're both fresh off the train. (Hermione beats Theo to Draco by a matter of hours; there's a ton of ways this story spins differently if minor details about the first chapters were changed, and that's definitely one of them.) Then Theo and Draco ride in on the boats together. (Admittedly, I was not aiming for subtlety points with this intro. They are literally "in the same boat.") Immediately, Theo is throwing out narrative parallels like he's getting paid for it: they both have a dead parent. Both parents died under weird circumstances. Their fathers were both Death Eaters. Both of them are the sole heirs and only sons of great wizarding houses. Then they go into the Great Hall together, standing in line, but — and @piedrafundamental left a really banger analysis of the Sorting Hat scene in the comments on that chapter, but I'm going to crib just one line — crucially, "M comes before N." Draco's sorted before Theodore is, and he goes into Gryffindor. Immediately after that, Theodore's shunted into Slytherin, and their paths diverge. Call this the prologue of their relationship. They're not actually gonna get to know each other until Book 2 and Book 3, but this is the part where the narrative is basically jumping up and down and waving its arms at you, going "HEY! THIS GUY! IMPORTANT TO THE STORY! GET WORRIED ABOUT WHAT HE'S DOING, OKAY?"

Then we meet him again in Book 2, and just like Draco, a year at Hogwarts has changed him. He's a little more confident, a little more cocky, a little more comfortable, and — hey, look! He's got a weirdly intense friendship with a girl around his age, too! (Surprise, surprise, Draco is with Hermione when he meets Theo again, and who makes her debut in that moment but Pansy Parkinson?) And there's Daphne, the third leg of the Slytherin Trio, the kind of girl Draco probably would end up with in Slytherin — pretty, sociable, cunning, knows his family history (literally cites it to him in their first introduction, like c'mon), is the sister of his canonical wife, etc. etc., we got layers to this shit like lasagna but this post ain't about Daphne so we gotta move on — point being, either way he flips, Draco's going to be the fourth of a quartet. Which is the entree into the Slytherin politics storyline of Book 2, a.k.a. "the temptation of Draco Malfoy," where Theo is — I mean, to be honest, for once he's really not doing anything that sinister; from his perspective, he's kind of just putting his fucking back out trying to make a friend? He's drawing Draco in a regression towards prejudice and comfort, naturally, but that's not how he sees it. But there's a counterpoint between what Theo's offering and what waits for him in Gryffindor.

So that's the starting block of his character. The rest of the work is building a real person out of that; obviously, you can't just go "this is Foil Man, does whatever a Foil Can" and expect people to be interested. Part of what makes Theo interesting, to me, is that the traits he shares with Draco include a lot of what we tend to like about him — he's driven, intelligent, cunning, and brutal in the defense of those he loves — it's just that the people he loves, the people he surrounds himself with, are deeply prejudiced people committed to doing profoundly bad things. He's been trained from birth in the art of making bad people happy, and he's gotten good at it. And he's just enough of a coward (again, pot and kettle) that he can't imagine a world where that's not the case.

And it drives him fucking crazy that Draco won't admit that. Because I think Theo thinks if he can get Draco to admit they're similar people, it'll validate the choices he's made — like, yeah, he's fucked up horribly, but anyone would do the same, if they had to face what he has. Even Saint Draco. And of course, Draco is absolutely unwilling to go there with him, because:

(a) he very much does not want to believe that his years of grueling internal growth and struggle for betterment are just the product of some good luck with a hat; i.e., a suggestion that is not just insulting but terrifying because it suggests how very close he could be to regression at any time; but also:

(b) it is a fundamental tenet of Theo and Draco's dynamic that Draco does not like Theo as much as Theo likes him. Because where Theo sees his mirror in the light, Draco sees his mirror in the dark. And it's an increasingly ugly picture.

#greenteacup asks #lionheart spoilers #lionheart

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una-hopeless-romantic1118 · 11 months

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𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐕: 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐃𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐬?—𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐑𝐨𝐣𝐚𝐬/𝐑𝐡𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐬

a/n: sorry for disappearing :,( I’ve had a pretty shitty life lately and writing has been helping me cope. things are less tense now and i’m able to update so i’m hoping u guys enjoy this MOMMY IS FEEDING YALL

timeline: ep. 3 (right smack in the Christmas scene) - ep. 4.

PS I WILL BE MAKING ANOTHER CHAPTER. WHY? BC I WANNA SNEAK IN SOME HARDCORE ANGST BC WHAT IS A LOVE STORY WITHOUT ANGST

also bc i feel like the relationship is sped up and rushed and we hate that

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

This chapter: Part 5

Part 6

Epilogue

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

warnings: as always, not proofread, hornae warren and y/n, some cavity-causing fluff, billy being a dicky dick,

summary:

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

•─────⋅(cut to documentary)⋅─────•

Eddie: Y/N Augustine was not who I expected to show up that Christmas Eve, with two trays of the best smelling lasagna I’ve ever smelled in my life, and an apologetic smile.

Why did she look apologetic? I don’t know, maybe it had something to do with the fact that as soon as she walked in, Warren was behind her? They were, like, 3 hours late.

Karen: Y/N is always on time. Whatever it is, doesn’t matter. For someone as fashionable as her, she manages to always arrive on time in the most gorgeous outfits I’ve ever seen.

She was still gorgeous that night, of course, but she was late, and she had a sort of...sleazy smile. Of course everyone assumed the same thing.

But 3 hours late? *she rolled her eyes* I mean, fuckin’. hell.

Camilla: When I first talked to the Y/N Augustine, I remember almost dropping you *she laughs* I was a major fan of her work, and still am. I really wasn’t expecting her on the phone when she called a few months before.

I asked who she was, being so forward on the phone about asking for my vest size when I didn’t order anything. I explained who I was, and introduced myself as Billy Dunne’s wife, and that I didn’t order a vest from this woman.

She was silent on the phone for a while, and came back introducing herself saying her name casually as if she wasn’t an important person. She said that she had no idea who Billy was, and that she was only familiar with a Warren Rojas, who she owed an order.

I found myself wondering how Warren managed to get a fashion designer to owe him a piece of her work...*she shrugs*

After freaking out to myself while I got his vest size, I didn’t bother passing the phone to him. And why would I? I wasn’t going to pass the chance to talk to one of my idols. And she didn’t seem to mind either.

I believe we went from talking about California, to the beaches, the majestic golden hour that shined through our windowsills at the same time, to you, even. She heard you crying through the phone.

And when I finally met her in person that night on Christmas, she was as lovely and funny. She gave every one of us presents, including you, and bothered to make us homemade food. I was so happy for Warren, but there were so many gaps as to how they even met.

•─────⋅(cut back)⋅─────•

“How did it go. Really,” Camilla insisted with a pleading tone. “How did you two meet?”

“Oh boy,” Karen mused, drinking her beer.

Y/N gave her friend beside her a pointed glare. “We met at a yacht party.”

Eddie leaned forward. “S-So is your name really Flora? Were you born ‘Flora?…”

“Flora...?” Camilla commented, lost, looking back and forth between Eddie and Y/N.

•─────⋅(cut to documentary)⋅─────•

Graham: She was so sweet about it, when me and Eddie went back and forth trying to connect the dots, which made it even more embarrassing.

I guess it didn’t really make sense to me at the time. Why and how someone proper and prim like her managed to wind up with Warren, the wild one of the group.

If I really considered the times he came late for practice, or left early, or that whenever he left to “work” at the boats, I think I could’ve gotten to the conclusion that he was smitten for this woman a lot earlier.

•─────⋅(cut back)⋅─────•

“That’s pretty smart right there,” Eddie chuckled at Y/N’s recall of fooling Warren. “I am very impressed.”

Y/N shrugs humbly, obviously as a joke. Warren knew she would forever tell this tale for however long she lived. Meanwhile, he’s just glad to be part of it and getting her at the end of it.

It seems that in their almost month-long relationship, the two have managed a healthy and surprisingly well schedule to meet up. With Y/N’s new projects and the band’s practices, they meet three times a week. Sometimes four, or more, depending on Warren’s libido that Y/N’s compared to a rabbit’s.

Though, it’s not like she can’t complain.

Apart from that though, Warren never misses the chance to get her something. Mostly jewelry boxes, jewelry, and take-out food, and when she needed to run an errand, he’d come to her apartment with her much needed rolls of cloths that he paid for, despite sending him off with her money.

•─────⋅(cut to documentary)⋅─────•

Y/N: When Warren and I first started dating, he was always the one coming to my place, never me visiting him over at Laurel Canyon. It was a little suspicious at first, so when I told him what I thought, y’know what he said?

He said, with the biggest grin on, “I wanna make a show out of it” and went to sleep after saying that. I never knew what he meant until that Christmas.

•─────⋅(cut back)⋅─────•

That night, he did indeed showcase his lover to his friends. Every question asked by Camilla or Billy or Eddie about her career he knew the answers to.

Where were you raised? Here in California up until she was 10, lived in France until she was 22 and moved back here to start Serenity. Sexiest French accent ever, even better when she’s muttering phrases under her breath stressfully.

Siblings? Two brothers, one older who hosts a foster home with his wife, one younger who just started a professional boxing career following their father’s footsteps. Three stepsisters who are all younger than her from her step-mom’s side, all of who are just now convinced their sister is famous for dating a rockstar drummer.

Favorite part about putting together designs? She finds satisfaction in piecing them together, and how she gets lost in sketching to the point that she doesn’t realize how long she’s been working.

Favorite song ever? She’ll say something everyone else says: Dreams by Fleetwood Mac. It is a good song, but it’s not a favorite song ever, because in reality it’s something old, specifically, Stand By Me by Ben E. King. She doesn’t like admitting this to other people for fear of being called a sappy romantic.

She is, in fact, a sappy romantic, and Warren doesn’t miss the chance to taunt her about it. The bedside table full of romance books that he's tried to read, but for the love of everything good he cannot sit still and read.

What he doesn't mind doing, however, is sit still to watch another invest in her books with focused, determined brows, and the occasional squealing after reaching a certain point in the book.

He's got her memorized so well, even Y/N's surprised that the things and habits she's kept to herself, he notices like she leaves it out in the open under the sun.

At the thought, she rests her head on his shoulder with a proud grin. And Warren responds with a peck at the top of her head.

While listening to an ecstatic Eddie share a story, something against Y/N’s lower back began to grow.

She holds in every fiber in her body to refrain them from giggling.

“Shame on you.” She sarcastically spat in his ear.

He frowns down at her. “Huh?”

Y/N widens her eyes and makes a pointed glare down to his erection.

There was a short reaction of shock. “Shame me? Shame on you.” Warren took note of this. It’s happened way too many times now, and he’s lost awareness of what turns him on. “Thanks to you, I don’t have control over my body functions anymore.”

“I didn’t do anything!” She whisper shouted.

“You’re just way too hot and good,” he groaned. “I can't wait to get home."

Y/N sighed into his shoulder helplessly. Home. Their condo, together.

“I love the way you smell,” he whispered, as he always does whenever near her. But no matter how many times he’s sniffed her or said that, he still doesn’t know exactly what she smells like. He figured it was sweet, of course, but it didn’t shoot up his nose too strongly. It wasn’t fruity either, or so he figured she's just her own scent. Natural.

"Thanks." She smiled up at him. "It’s the French brand. It lasts longer on me.”

"No, I think it's just you."

She looks up at him through furrowed eyebrows. "Nobody can just smell nice naturally."

He shrugs. "Well, I dunno what smell it is." He twirls her hair. “It can’t be on a title of a perfume brand.”

She shook his chin playfully. “Pay attention to the conversation, playboy.”

He can’t. How could he?

It’s only been a month, but a month of what Warren already knew was pure and genuine. Y/N could do no wrong to him, and vice versa. They were good for each other.

The soft, buttery gliding up and down on his arm is what Warren can determine with his eyes closed; the softness of Y/N's fingers. The arm wresting on her chest as she leans on his front—it was only natural for Y/N to caress.

And as a response, another peck to her head.

•─────⋅(cut to the documentary)⋅─────•

Daisy: I’ve never been a fashion fanatic, but Y/N’s work spoke to me. She was a true artist, y’know? She knew what she was doing, and she is really fucking good at it. She didn’t just throw it a bunch of cloth and called it a day, the woman directed her creativity to the art every single time. And I recognized that.

Imagine my surprise when I see her at a house party I was also invited to.

•─────⋅(cut back)⋅─────•

Daisy arrives at the Dunnes’ place, already making a fool of herself by absentmindedly dropping the bottle of wine that she technically stole, but still.

Not to mention, she had an audience, their faces were clouded by the smoke she just blew out, and not to mention, it was dark.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it.” In her voice, Daisy can tell she spoke with a smile. “They have too much fun, they’ll need the fruit. Nutritional values.”

She emerged from the shadows with, indeed, a smile that warms the heart. But a recognizable face that she’s seen on televised interviews and small pictures of beside the designs she eyes enviously on the magazines.

“Holy shit...holy shit!” Her hands went up to the sides of her head. “Holy fucking shit! Hi! Oh my goodness...”

“Daisy Jones you’ve been in radios in everywhere I’ve been today,” she chuckled humbly. “I can ensure you I’m a bigger fan.”

“I’ve seen you in magazines for a lot longer. “ She shook her head in disbelief. “I love you so much.”

But before Y/N escorts her to the rest of the band, she pulls her into a hug.

•─────⋅(cut to the documentary)⋅─────•

Daisy: I’m not much of a hugger. I think, especially considering my relationship with my mother, I couldn’t handle physical touch. Most times I would just be forced into hugging people and I stand there, just like a stiff tree. But something about Y/N, even though I’d never met her before, made me feel so glad that I’m a person she would hug.

I felt really appreciated by this stranger.

While we spent most of the night talking us a group, eventually everyone else started to branch out and talk to others. Warren was clung to her like a lost puppy. God, *shaking her head* never thought a guy like Warren can be sappy.

They just started dating and I could already see the connection between them. They mutually understood each other on such a level that everyone else around them can just do theirselves a favor and leave them alone.

•─────⋅(cut back)⋅─────•

“My family might visit for the summer,” Y/N smiles against her hand. “I can’t wait. Lils and Hana and Ines are gonna try and talk to you. They’re English is so broken, it’s adorable.”

Warren smiles at her, even as he’s drunkly chugging at his drink. “You ever think about kids? I dunno, someday?” He panicked.

“Yeah. I think about kids.” Y/N vaguely answered to tease him.

He nods slowly. “Ye-Yeah. Me too.”

Y/N smiles innocently, scratching his headful of curls. “Want my kids?”

Warren gave her the deepest kiss as an answer.

taglist (aka beautiful people): @pinkdaiisies @mlwriting5 @teletubbysteroids @linatells @stanzie @arsonkween @rexorangecouny @lisbeth122605 @cultsanrio @thatoneawesomechicka @magicalmiserybore @sourholland @sunfairyy. @lilyhw1 @viridianflowers @goldenjasssy @eonnyx @coldlamaspersonspy @navs-bhat @nicostars @darkestcinema @gr4cel4nd2

#daisy jones #daisy jones and the six #djats #warren rhodes #warren rhodes x reader #warren rhodes x you #warren rojas #warren rojas x reader #warren rojas x y/n #warren rojas x you #warren rojas fic #warren rhodes fic

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milksockets · 10 months

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lmao supervisor’s supervisor’s supervisor just stopped by to jokingly but also clearly not-jokingly chide my team for choosing not to attend the *optional* staff boat cruise last night, an unpaid, more-than-3-hour affair with no escape because uh it’s floating on the fucking water.

as if i was just hankering for a reason to spend even more time with these ridiculous clowns, but with the addition of mediocre lasagna + the need for dramamine.

spare me.

#words #working girl

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ya-pucking-nerd · 1 year

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it’s always the boy next door - t.jost

A/N: Hi!! It's me! I'm @ilyasorokinn mystery fic writer as a part of @antoineroussel winter fic exchange! I do apologize for posting this so close to the deadline, but I hope you enjoy!!

Warning: alcohol consumption, some minor swearing

Buffalo, New York. Stereotypically one of the coldest cities in the United States. Typically, people visit in the summer, but more so for Niagara Falls. Or they visit in the winter because of the skiing. People don’t generally move to Buffalo, especially after 7 feet of snow had just fallen. Nevertheless, you watched through the peephole in your apartment door as movers entered the apartment across the hall with boxes of belongings.

You texted all your friends and received responses similar to the ones you were thinking of yourself.

“Who moves to Buffalo in the middle of November?” “Do you think they know about the snow?” “Why now? People don’t usually get job transfers until after the new year.”

Dismissing all your friends, you thought it might be nice to make a meal for your new neighbor. Moving is hard work; the last thing people feel like doing after moving into a new apartment is making dinner. So, you decided on a safe lasagna. When it cooled down, you grabbed your keys and brought it over.

After knocking, you heard a crash and a “Shit!” You had to bite on your bottom lip to hush yourself. The laughter soon died in your throat as the front door opened, revealing your new neighbor.

“Tyson?!” you exclaimed, probably annoying your neighbors. “Oh my god! Why are you here?”

“Y/N.” Tyson looked shocked. He looked nearly the same as the day he left you.

**Flashback**

You and Tyson were both 18, just graduated from high school. Tyson was ready to begin training and playing for North Dakota. His dream of becoming an NHL hockey player was so close to coming true. On the other hand, you had your sights set on the University of Toronto. Their business program was one of the top programs in Canada. It broke your heart to leave Tyson.

In the two weeks you had left with Tyson, you spent just about every minute with him. You took his parent’s boat out on the lake. You slipped a case of beer past your parents and drank with all your friends. And he kissed you on the last day, at the “goodbye forever Tyson” bonfire. He was your first kiss. That kind of stuff made an impression.

And then, he left. The texts were constant, detailing his day and how much he missed you and home. And then, they became less frequent. And then they stopped. Except for the odd “happy birthday” text, you and Tyson never communicated. You blamed yourself for becoming so attached. After all, you were half drunk, feeling a range of emotions because Tyson was leaving. It probably didn’t mean anything to him, even though it meant the world to you.

**End Flashback**

Tyson was still standing in front of you, mouth open.

“Are you going to invite me in? The lasagna’s getting hot.” you joked. He nodded his head, still in disbelief.

Tyson’s apartment was beautiful. Your apartment view was a nice pretty brick wall, but his view was the skyline of Buffalo. He had all modern appliances, a huge living area, and what you assumed was a giant bedroom. You were so busy admiring the view that you didn’t notice Tyson staring at you.

“Tys. This place is amazing!”

He scratched the back of his head, finally looking around, saying, “Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess? Tyson, my view is a brick wall.” You hoped Tyson got the hint that you wanted to spend some time in his apartment. With him.

He laughed, then opened the lasagna. “Y/N, this is a lot of lasagna for one person. How much do you think I eat?”

“Tys, you can just save some for leftovers.” You said quickly, forgetting that he had moved in that day. “Y/N, I don’t have a fridge yet!” He laughed. He pointed to the fridge-sized space between the cabinets. You hadn’t had the chance to look at his kitchen. “It’s not getting delivered until Tuesday.”

“Wait, Tyson. Why are you here? Did you get traded?”

“Minnesota put me on waivers. Crazy thing is they didn’t even tell me until it happened. I’m just glad I was picked up. Would’ve been embarrassing, eh?” He shrugged his shoulders. Instantly, you knew it was a sore subject for him, understandably so.

“Well, it’s getting kind of late, Tys. But I’m glad I came over. I missed you. Maybe whenever you’re free next, I can show you around?” You picked at the ends of your shirt, nervous that Tyson caught the way your voice strained when you said, “I missed you.”

“I’m free on Thursday night.” He was smiling. “My first home game is Friday, too. Do you think you could come? You can even bring some friends. I’ll get you seats. I just…” he trailed off.

“Tys, of course I want to come. I have two friends. Would you mind if I invited them? I’d love for you to meet them.” You replied, filling in the space. You assumed he wanted to say he wanted someone familiar cheering him on in his first game for his new team.

Blushing, Tyson nodded his head. He pulled out his phone and handed it to you. “I got a new number when I moved here. I’ll text you the tickets for you and two friends. And, then, after the game, you guys can meet me in the tunnel.” You typed in your number and gave it back before engulfing Tyson in a hug. “Thanks, Tys. I have work in the morning, but I’ll give you a tour of the city Thursday night.”

That night, you couldn’t sleep. Tyson Jost was your new neighbor. The Tyson Jost that you kissed when you were 18. You must have had the worst luck, running into the guy who broke your heart even though it was never technically his to break. Or maybe it was the best luck.

~~ Thursday evening came. You did have a meeting but slid it to a remote Friday morning meeting. While you worried that you were turning back into your 18-year-old self with a massive schoolgirl crush on your best friend, you swallowed your feelings. All you wanted was a nice night out. You haven’t seen some of the attractions you planned to show Tyson tonight. You only knew of them.

It was cold in Buffalo, a whole 8°F. You were bundled in all your warmest winter clothes waiting in the lobby of your apartment complex for Tyson. He met you on time, and you left the complex chatting about your week since you last saw each other.

You found your car in the lot, and you half-expected Tyson to laugh at your silly old car. The buttons stopped working to unlock your car, so you had to use the key to open it. It smelled a little musty from the old man you bought it from. The maximum speed on the darn thing was about 50 miles per hour. But you loved it more than anything because it was your first adult purchase without your parents’ help.

But Tyson didn’t laugh. He smiled when you told him stories about your car. And he tapped the dashboard and said, “Good job” when you parked in a parking lot of your first tourist destination—Canalside in downtown Buffalo.

You told Tyson that before you became so busy with work, you used to take your daily jogs here. It was beautiful in summer but even prettier in the fall as the leaves turned orange and red.

Next up, you walked to the Liberty Building. The statues on top of the building were lit up, which made them sparkle if you looked at them just right.

As you walked through the streets of Buffalo, you started shivering. Tyson grabbed your hands. “Y/N! Your hands are freezing.” And with that, he took both hands and cupped them with his larger ones, blowing his warm breath on your hands. He closed his hands around yours for a few seconds while gazing into your eyes. At that point, you were so close to just smashing your lips together, but you knew you couldn’t.

He didn’t deserve that. His ex-best friend comes onto him two days after he moves to a brand new city with brand new teammates and brand-new expectations. No. You couldn’t do that to Tyson.

You walked and talked for about an hour. You were beyond freezing, even with Tyson holding your hand in his. You unlocked your car. The drive back to your apartment complex was pretty quiet. Tyson was fidgeting with his hands.

“Y/N?” His voice was low, almost like a whisper. “I have a question, and you can totally say no. I would understand.”

“What’s up?”

“The Sabres are having a holiday party next Saturday. Would you come with me? I just want to make a good impression. I know we haven’t really been close, but I could use a friend. And I can introduce you to the guys tomorrow night at the game. Then, it won’t be so awkward.”

You nodded your head, thinking about the offer. “I can. Don’t you think it’ll be weird, though? Did you tell the team you’re bringing someone?”

“I didn’t tell them. I was hoping I could tell them you’re my girlfriend. I know it’ll be weird, but I really want to make a good impression. Investors will be there and love seeing guys have good girlfriends.”

You tossed the thought around and found yourself thinking back to that summer he kissed you. If you pretended to be his girlfriend, you would, at minimum, receive a forehead kiss. The deal sounded good to your 18-year-old still-had-a-crush-on-Tyson self. You couldn’t turn this down, even if it was fake.

You nodded and said, “Yeah, I’ll go with you and be your fake girlfriend, Tyson.”

“Thanks, Y/N. It means a lot, and if you ever have an event and need a date, I’ll be there. Pinky swear.” He held up his pinky, and you took your hand off the wheel to lock your pinky fingers together.

Friday night was here. Lexi and Marco, the two friends you invited with you, met right after work so you could all drive together to KeyBank Center. They spent the whole trip teasing you about your new neighbor. You understood, but at the same time, you knew that the chances Tyson liked you were slim to none.

In his first game as a Sabre, Tyson got in a scrum. It was nearly a fight if the refs hadn’t interfered. He kept smirking on the bench and chewing on that damn mouthguard. He picked up the habit in high school, and you couldn’t get enough of it.

Your emotions were out of control. You were proud of Tyson for showing his loyalty to his new team, but you hated when he got in fights. You always wished that hockey would be a no-contact sport.

You, Lexi, and Marco flashed your shiny passes to the security guard, and he let you down towards the waiting area for friends and family. You paced around, seeing a few women and children, most likely the wives of the Buffalo Sabres. They seemed to all be in a little bubble like you were peering into something you would never quite get to be a part of.

Tyson had to do media. Of course, he did. He got in a scrum in his first game. The media was going to eat him up. The newest darling of the Buffalo Sabres. This meant that it took a little longer for him to find you. Most of the men had come out of the locker room, met with their significant others, and left.

When he finally came out, he was sweaty but had the largest smile. He beelined straight for you and gave you the biggest hug you’ve ever been given. Tyson dropped his bag, wrapped his arms around your waist, and lifted you up. He breathed deeply and simply wouldn’t let go. Lexi and Marco were sharing knowing looks, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to care.

“Wanna go home?” Tyson mumbled into your shoulder. You nodded but looked back at Lexi and Marco. They mouthed, “Go!” You mouthed back, “Thank you,” before going with Tyson when he suddenly grabbed your hand. You weren’t sure what was going on, but you suddenly felt a blush across your cheeks. Using your other hand, you untucked some of your hair from your ear in an effort to conceal the blush. “In case someone’s in the parking lot,” Tyson explained after he cleared his throat.

He dropped your hand once you got to his car. You felt sad but then had to remind yourself that this whole thing was fake. Everything was fake. The drive home was silent, but neither you nor Tyson filled the silence. You were falling back into that comfort of two best friends. You knew you had a crush on Tyson, but this fake dating thing was going to mess with your head. Here you were, blurring the line between friend and boyfriend, but Tyson didn’t even seem fazed.

That night, you went to sleep so incredibly confused.

The rest of the week went by quickly. Tyson had a quick trip to Boston and down to the Rangers but then came back up Thursday night. Friday was an odd day off. The guys had gone to TopGolf in the morning. You were at work and then had to go pick up your dress. It was a long navy blue dress with rhinestones lining the small slit against your right knee. You were planning on wearing some silver jewelry.

Tyson knocked on your door right as you put your left heel on. You hobbled to the door. It would be a painful night in these shoes, but you would do anything for Tyson.

When you answered the door, Tyson was left speechless, running his eyes over you.

“You look good – I mean incredible. You look incredible, Y/N. Sorry, just forgot what words were.” He looked great in a light grey suit with a navy blue dress shirt to match your dress.

“You look great, too, Tyson.” You gave him a hug, grabbed your clutch, and walked out with him. He grabbed your hand on the way out.

The event went well. You mostly talked with the women of the Buffalo Sabres, or as they called themselves, the Lady Buffs.

Tyson was as sweet as could be. He was always around, asking if you needed a refill or just keeping his arm around your waist. You got pictures together with people that asked, and he told everyone you were his girlfriend. He was the perfect fake boyfriend.

But, of course, all good things must come to an end. You left the event as the donors and important executives of the Buffalo Sabres began leaving. You wanted to make an impression and not leave early like a few younger players did. You knew Tyson wanted to show how serious he was about Buffalo, and you wanted to play the role of Tyson’s girlfriend perfectly. Maybe psychologically, it would make him want to keep dating.

You and Tyson held hands the whole way to your apartments. He noticed you didn’t have a jacket to keep you warm, so he draped his suit jacket over your shoulders. He really was the best fake boyfriend. Tyson stopped you before you could keep going back to your apartment.

“Y/N, do you want to come to mine? I just wanna wind down, and it’s easier with a friend. I can get you a glass of wine if you want.”

You smiled and nodded your head. He opened the door for you. The apartment was slightly more disheveled than when you had seen it last. He had been busy decorating and purchasing furniture.

You shook off your shoes and Tyson’s suit jacket, then followed Tyson further inside. You were lost in thought. You were trying so hard to push off the thoughts that this felt so natural it could have been real. But it was all fake. Tyson made it explicitly clear. He wanted to wind down with a friend.

He led you to his bedroom and sifted through his drawers. He gave you a pair of old Avalanche sweatpants and a North Dakota sweatshirt.

“You can take the bathroom,” he said softly. You missed the way he watched your form walk into the ensuite bathroom.

When you walked back out of the bathroom, Tyson was gone. You found him, shirtless, in the kitchen holding two bottles. You were still reeling from all the feelings you’d felt throughout the night.

“Red or white?” His voice interrupted your thoughts. “Red,” you answered back. He nodded his head and poured you a glass. You grabbed the glass while he kept the bottle in his hand and grabbed a beer with his other. He nodded towards the couch. He grabbed the remote, opened Netflix, and put on a random show that neither of you was particularly interested in.

You fell asleep on his couch that night but woke up in Tyson’s guest bedroom with a blanket and a hangover. But there was a water bottle and a bottle of Advil on the nightstand next to your fully charged phone. He was so thoughtful. But the gig was up. Why was he still performing boyfriend duties?

You slipped out of the guest room and met the smell of bacon. Tyson’s head popped around the corner. He was smiling and listening to music through headphones.

“I didn’t want to wake you with my loud music. How do you like your eggs?” His head bobbed to the beat of whatever song he had going on.

“Sunny side up, please, Tys. Thanks. You know you don’t have to do this, right?”

“Y/N, you had at least three glasses at the party and one when we got home. Don’t even tell me your head isn’t pounding so hard you’re leaning forward at a 45-degree angle.” he laughed.

After breakfast, you went home. You were still wearing Tyson’s clothes, and he didn’t stop you from walking out the door. Everything just felt so confusing. You decided taking a nap would temporarily ease all of your worries.

It was pretty easy to avoid Tyson after the Sabres’ party. He had an 11-day road trip that wouldn’t bring him back to Buffalo until December 23rd. It was easy to text him, “Busy with work stuff!” because you didn’t have to look at his face. You were an absolute sucker for him.

Tyson texted you on Christmas Eve.

Tyson: You’re ignoring me :( Come hang out with me.

Y/N: Am not. Was busy. You come here. Your place doesn’t have any Christmas decorations :p

Tyson: On my way!

You turned on Christmas music and waited for Tyson to burst through in Tyson fashion. Sure enough, he opened your door two minutes after you sent the text.

“Y/N, it’s really not safe to leave your door unlocked. Someone could steal you.” It’s a shame he didn’t know he had already stolen your heart.

You handed him a mug of hot chocolate to shut him up for now.

“Why didn’t you go home for Christmas, Tyson?”

“Didn’t work out. And no one really wants to visit me here in Buffalo. Besides, who would you spend Christmas with, then? Who would you watch all your movies with you? And how would you get any presents?” He knew those were your favorite parts. And gosh darn it, it felt right to spend a Christmas with Tyson even though your fake dating façade was done with.

You huffed and grabbed the remote and turned on your favorite Christmas movie. Tyson grabbed your legs, swinging them into his lap. He began to rub small circles on your ankle, leaving you unable to focus on the movie.

The night carried on, several more mugs of hot chocolate drank, and a few shots of peppermint schnapps snuck in, too, but you always ended up with your legs on Tyson’s lap.

You ended up falling asleep again. This time, you woke up cuddled with Tyson. You were both positioned in a sitting-upright position, but your head was on his shoulder, his arm wrapped around your shoulders, and your legs were tangled together. Your head was spinning once again. How did you end up like this?

You didn’t want to wake Tyson up. It was Christmas, after all. You let him sleep for about thirty more minutes before gently lifting his arm off your body.

His half-asleep subconscious felt this and pulled you closer to him. “Not yet,” he grumbled. He nuzzled his face into your hair and sighed deeply. “Let me just pretend this is real for a little longer.”

His words shocked you. You bolted straight up. He realized what he had said and took a deep breath.

“Merry Christmas, Y/N. Also, I’minlovewithyouandIwasjusttooafraidtotellyou.” Your eyes got even wider if that was even possible. “I’ve probably been in love with you for a while. I don’t know. You make me feel happy and safe. And that’s like girlfriend feelings. And I like it. And I like you a lot more than being my friend. I know I’ve only been around for a few weeks, so there’s no obligation for you to return my feelings. Would you wanna give it a shot, though?”

Your answer? Smashing your lips to his. It was just like the movies—fireworks in your belly and warmth spreading over your skin. Tyson grabbed your head and pulled you closer, only allowing you to separate when you were begging for air.

“That’s my answer then, eh?” You playfully whacked him with a throw pillow.

“Shut up,” you grumbled before leaning in again.

“Wait, hold on! I gotta get something!” He left the apartment and returned with a wrapped box and a card.

“Tys! I didn’t think we were getting each other something! I feel so awful!”

“Just read it, Y/N.” He looked absolutely giddy at the thought.

The card read: Dear Y/N, I’m so glad that I found you here in Buffalo. I thought that I would never see you again after that summer before I left. You’re truly a blessing to have in my life. You keep me sane, and I don’t think I would’ve handled the move to Buffalo without you. I appreciate you beyond words can explain. Thanks for spending Christmas with me. Love, Tyson.

Tears welled up in your eyes. Before you could even speak, Tyson handed you a tissue. And then the box. You carefully opened it. It was a little robot?

“There’s two robots. And you can draw on their bellies. And what I draw, you’ll see on your screen until you decide to draw, and then I’ll see it on my screen. No matter where we are. Like if I’m on a road trip. I thought it would be nice.”

It was the most thoughtful gift you’ve ever received. You hugged him tightly, so glad you were allowed to do it for as long as you pleased. You kissed his nose in appreciation before tackling him into your couch for some Christmas morning cuddles.

~~ The end <3

I really do hope you enjoyed!!

Tagging some extra moots who might enjoy: @jostystyles @2manytabsopen @fallinallincurls @slapshot-to-the-heart @typical-simplelove

#tyson jost #tyson jost fic #nhl fic #hockey fic #winter fic exchange 2k23 #buffalo sabres #buffalo sabres fic #emma writes

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galaxystiel · 11 months

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put up your hands (say i don’t wanna be in love)

Written for @sterekweekly for the prompt ‘midnight’.

Summary: Stiles had even made dessert, a (slightly lopsided) coconut rum cake, knowing Derek had a sweet tooth he would never admit to. A little more effort than Stiles would normally go to, but he’d figured if he couldn’t push the boat out for their anniversary, then when could he? Teen | 2.3k

[Read on AO3]

Stiles counted along with the clock, the second hand ticking ever closer to twelve. Five, four, three, two…

Midnight.

Dinner had gone cold hours ago, the remains of his mom’s lasagna a congealed mess in the dish at the centre of their table. Small, battery-operated tea lights that were barely aglow now. Pinpricks of light, like little fireflies surrounding a failed disaster of a dinner date. While Derek had never said anything about a disdain for open flames indoors, Stiles had thought it was better safe than sorry, and this was a nice compromise. Romantic atmosphere without the fire hazard or a mess of molten wax.

He’d even made dessert, a (slightly lopsided) coconut rum cake, knowing Derek had a sweet tooth he would never admit to. A little more effort than Stiles would normally go to, but he’d figured if he couldn’t push the boat out for their anniversary, then when could he?

But Derek hadn’t come home at all.

Stiles finally dragged his eyes away from the clock and let his shoulders slump. He wasn’t angry. It wasn’t fair to blame Derek for being busy at work. It’s not like Stiles had told him that he was going to try and do something special. Although Derek had promised he’d be home for dinner.

It wasn’t a lie, Stiles told himself. Derek had obviously intended to come home on time. Something must have just come up. Something so clearly important that meant he couldn’t even call. Right? Right.

He wasn’t angry. He was just tired and a little bit humiliated. Clearly, he’d put a little more—not value, that wasn’t the right word, he knew Derek valued him—sentiment, yeah, behind their anniversary than was reciprocated. Which was, not fine, not even expected but it was… yeah. It was what it was.

Something ached deep in Stiles’ chest and the chair scraped back against the floor as he scooped up all of the tea lights in hands that were totally not shaking, fingers that were absolutely, completely steady as he found their off switches. He tossed them in the trash can and then, upon thinking about Derek potentially finding them, crumpled a few paper towels and stuffed them on top.

Dessert was still in the fridge and the lasagna joined it, carefully wrapped in foil. No point in letting it go to waste, maybe Derek could take it to the station tomorrow and share it with the Sheriff. It wasn’t the healthiest of meals, but hey, his dad was allowed a cheat day every now and then, particularly when his son was suffering from a broken heart.

“Okay, enough,” Stiles muttered, waggling his fingers in front of his face. Broken heart, seriously? “You’re being pathetic, Stiles. It’s just freakin’ dinner. Derek loves you the other three hundred sixty four days of the year. There shouldn’t be anything important about this one.”

Except, there kinda was? This marked a year to the day they’d first admitted how great they could be together, and put their absolute trust in each other as their relationship had taken the next step. Stiles had just wanted to commemorate that. Even just seeing Derek for more than the ten minutes they’d overlapped at breakfast, before Derek’s shift started. He refused to feel bad that he wanted a little more than that, just for today.

Weariness took over, and Stiles abandoned his cleaning up of the kitchen in favour of making his way to the bed he and Derek had shared for six months now. He stopped abruptly in the doorway and swayed, looking at the rumpled sheets and feeling his lip quiver. Suddenly, the thought of spending the night in their bed alone seemed like the most awful thing he could imagine. A shaky exhale left his lips, and then Stiles turned abruptly on his heel, bounding back down the stairs and snatching his keys from the sea glass bowl near the front door.

Roscoe seemed to know he wasn’t in the mood for her games tonight, engine roaring to life at the simple flick of his wrist. He drove, trying to force the buzzing thoughts in his head to quieten down as he followed the trail of street lamps. Even under their glow, the world looked awash with grey. Colourless, lifeless, numb.

Stiles kind of knew the feeling.

He didn’t really have a destination in mind, but when he found himself idling outside of his childhood home, he supposed he’d probably known where he was heading the whole time. The sight of the cruiser was both welcome and unwelcome, and Stiles rested his head against the steering wheel, taking a deep breath.

When he let himself in with a key he barely used anymore, he was greeted with the sight of his dad halfway out of the living room, summoned by the sound of the door.

“Stiles? It’s almost one in the morning, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Dad,” Stiles choked, and then he was falling forward into strong arms, and tears were stinging his eyes but he wouldn’t let them fall, he wouldn’t cry. Not over this. He inhaled, long fingers grasping the back of his dad’s shirt, holding him tightly.

Distantly, Stiles registered that if his dad was still in uniform, he couldn’t have been home long. His theory had been right. Something had cropped up on duty that kept both his dad and Derek later than planned. Usually, he’d be bugging one of them to find out what happened, but right now Stiles didn’t care. Because he realized that if his dad was home, Derek was probably on his way too, and would discover Stiles’ absence at any moment.

“Can I just stay here tonight? Please?” He hated how soft and pleading his voice came out. Hated that he couldn’t handle this like an adult and face his problems head on.

But his dad held him just that little bit tighter and Stiles could have wept with relief.

“Of course you can, son, you never have to ask. Didn’t take your key, did I? The bed’s always made up for you.” He pulled back and his face went through three different expressions of reluctance before he asked, “You break up with Derek?”

Stiles’ breath caught in his throat, and the words came out thickly. “No.” He shook his head. “No, of course not. I just—can we not do this now, dad? Can’t it be enough that I’m mad at him right now and I want to stay here tonight?”

“Of course it can. Go on, get some sleep, kid.”

Stiles mumbled something that was both thanks and a goodnight and trudged his way up the stairs. The sheets didn’t smell right, now he’d gotten used to the unscented fabric softener that Derek preferred, and they were a little musty from disuse. That, together with the rampant emotions thrumming in every part of his chest, suggested that sleep would be a long time coming.

But almost as soon as Stiles closed his eyes, the world faded to nothing.

* * *

He wasn’t sure what woke him up.

It was still dark, so he hadn’t been asleep long. There was no clock by his bedside anymore, a reminder that this familiar bed wasn’t where he should be waking up.

His eyes flicked to the window out of habit, and he watched as it began to close, slowly and silently. Stiles squinted blearily into the darkness, but he couldn’t make out anything more than a shadow outside his window. But that was enough.

“Derek,” he whispered. The window stopped moving, little more than three inches between the sash and the sill. The silence was deafening, and for a moment Stiles held his breath, wondering if a reply would come at all.

“I was just making sure you were here.” Derek’s voice was quiet, and Stiles couldn’t even convince himself that it was out of consideration for the late hour. Even beyond that, he could hear the misery in every syllable. “You weren’t supposed to wake up. I know you don’t want to see me right now, but I—I just needed to know you were somewhere safe.”

Stiles sat up, wrapped the top blanket around himself and shuffled over to the window. He didn’t open it, just sat on the floor, his cheek pressed to the jamb. He could feel the light presence of air drifting through the gap. It wasn’t particularly cold, but Stiles shivered anyway.

“I should have left a note,” he said eventually. “It wasn’t my intention to make you worry.”

The reply that came was filled with bitterness and self-loathing. “I could say the same. I should have called. I should have been home,” Derek corrected himself. “I saw—I found—I’m sorry.”

The words didn’t heal the wounds the evening had left deep within Stiles’ chest, but they were a stepping stone. This was Derek reaching out, and now it was up to Stiles to meet him halfway. He reached up, fingers scrabbling as he pushed the window upwards, opening it fully. His motions were far less quiet than Derek’s, but he didn’t care.

He shuffled back as one leg stepped inside the window, followed by another, and then Derek’s head ducked through. His face was drawn, visible even when half-shrouded in shadow. There was tension in every line of his body and he made no move to enter the room further, just hovered by the window as if he would be made to leave at any moment.

And hell if that didn’t sweep the air from Stiles’ lungs. After all this time, Derek should never be unsure of his welcome. Not with him.

His fingers curled into the knee of Derek’s grey sweatpants and he tugged lightly enough to make his point clear. He acquiesced instantly, legs folding beneath him as they both settled on the floor. Even though Derek didn’t need it, Stiles loosened his grip on the blanket and haphazardly threw a corner around Derek’s shoulders.

“I didn’t forget.” When Stiles looked nonplussed, Derek clarified, “The date. I know you think I did, but you’re wrong. There’s a card in the Camaro. It has a stupid pun on it. I thought it would make you laugh.”

It probably would have. Stiles would have been delighted at Derek’s attempt at humour. He would have probably had it framed, to hang in their bedroom for years to come.

“That helps,” Stiles admitted. “But it doesn’t make everything better. I felt, no, I feel like an idiot for caring so much about this. And it’s ridiculous because I knew who you were when we got together. I didn’t expect rose petals and candles and slow dancing. I just wanted to see you.”

Silence. Stiles knew he’d somehow said the wrong thing because he could feel the sadness rolling off Derek in waves.

“What did I say?”

“Nothing.”

Stiles’ hand flew out and he flicked on the lamp. When his eyes recovered from the sudden flare of brightness, he squinted at Derek. “Are you actually pouting right now?”

“No.” Derek raised his eyes to the ceiling petulantly, pursing his lips.

Stiles barked out a laugh and poked Derek in the bicep. “You are totally pouting. What did I say? Tell me. You know I won’t quit until you do.”

“I could do all of that if that’s what you wanted,” Derek ground out with no small amount of reluctance. “It doesn’t make me feel good when you say you don’t expect me to do the whole romance thing.”

“You literally just called it ‘the whole romance thing’, dude, that doesn’t instil hope. And given that I can’t even get you to show up for dinner when you agreed to it, why would I hold my breath for wooing?”

Derek’s eyes flashed blue, his hands curling into fists as he turned his guilt-ridden face away. Stiles closed his eyes. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. And I didn’t mean it, really I didn’t. I’m just lashing out because I’m embarrassed. You know you romanced the hell out of me when we started dating. That wasn’t what I meant. I was trying to express that I didn’t expect our anniversary to be a huge deal in general. I just wanted to acknowledge that it happened, because it was the day the world gave me you.”

Derek swallowed, and Stiles watched as the tension unfurled from his body. He idly picked at a stray string at the hem of his sweatpants, before clumsy fingers reached out and curled over Stiles’. A peace offering, a gesture of forgiveness and a request for forgiveness of his own at the same time.

Stiles threaded their fingers together and held on tightly.

“You already had me,” Derek said. He rubbed his thumb over Stiles’ knuckles. “Fate or the universe or anything else had no part in it. I do like knowing that’s how you see it, though.”

“How do you see it?”

“I remember it as the day I realized that you were going to keep fighting at my side like you belonged there, and it first occurred to me that you did.”

The threat of tears stung Stiles’ eyes, and he raised their joined hands together to lightly brush his lips over the back of Derek’s hand.

“I love you.”

“Yes,” Derek said, then cautiously added, “Does that mean you’ll come home?”

Stiles nodded, and pressed his forehead to Derek’s shoulder, basking in the warmth. “I was always coming home.” He cast a look over his shoulder at his childhood bed and sighed. “I’m not waking my dad up after his late night. You’ll have to squeeze in beside me and suffer in a single bed for one night.”

The smile that spread over Derek’s face was fond, genuine. Its sudden appearance made the ache in Stiles’ chest finally settle, even as his heart betrayed him and embarrassingly skipped a beat. He flushed, not even needing to look at Derek to know he’d heard it and the smile was widening into a dumb grin.

“Stupid werewolf hearing,” Stiles huffed and slid back into his bed, making space for Derek to join him. “Get in the bed before I change my mind. And you’re buying me a nice dinner tomorrow. And don’t think I’ve forgotten about my card, I want my dumb punny card, Derek.”

Derek kicked off his shoes, sliding under the covers and wrapping his arms around Stiles. Stiles wriggled closer, sighing as Derek pressed a gentle kiss to his neck, and then nuzzled the same spot sweetly.

“Anything you want,” he promised.

If you liked it, please consider leaving me a comment or kudos on AO3, or reblogging here!

#sterekweekly #sterekweeklymidnight #sterek #teen wolf #thebatsquad #I have no idea how to tag things for this fandom #but here I wrote something have it

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imsparky2002 · 7 months

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Batraculous - Makin’ Out

Marc/Nathaniel: *Making out on top of the Bat Jet*

Chloé: Hey! Off my jet!

*Later*

Marinette: I’ll just pull up the- Oh, come on!

Marc/Nathaniel: *Making out on the table in the control room*

Marinette: In here?!

Kim: I cannot wait to have some of my lasagna- NO! Not in the Bat-Lounge!

Marc/Nathaniel: *Making out on the table while having a casual conversation*

Marc: *While Nathaniel kisses his neck* So, Denise is thinking of heading to Cuba for the summer to visit family, and of course, Simon can’t stand to be away from them for so long.

Nathaniel: Hey, I get that- *Kisses up and down Marc’s arm* I’d hate to be away from you, too, babe.

Max: Oh… Make outs in the Bat-Lounge again. Yay…

Marc: Shoot, I think I got lipstick in your hair.

Nathaniel: Don’t care, just keep kissing the life out of me.

Max: Or, don’t?

Marc: Ah, let’s move to the floor. The table’s not that sturdy. *He and Nathaniel start making out on the floor*

Kim: Okay… I’ll get my lasagna another time…

Jean: Batmobile or Bat Boat?

Austin T: Neither, let’s go in the jet. I love those leather seats.

Chloé: NO!!

Kim/Ondine: *Making out in the Bat Boat*

Nino: Hey! I just sprayed this down! Go in the Bat Jet like everyone else!

Chloé: WHAT?!

Here’s another lil short thing that Artzy wrote in our messages so shoutout to them! Make sure to like, reblog, post and ask. @artzychic27 @msweebyness

#batman #batman au #bat heroes #superhero au #dc #miraculous ladybug #miraculous

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bookcub · 7 months

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LASAGNA SOUP OMG!!!

also if you wanted to post ur recipe for the potato leek.... 👉👈

yeah! my uncle made it for me YEARS ago and then i was like hey wait i cook now, i can TOTALLY do lasagna soup and after comparing like 15 recipes i was like wow im over thinking this, and it was!

and ummm i use my moms version . . .this is pretty close but the plan is to do bacon first and use the bacon fat instead of butter for the leeks and then use chopped up bacon after to add in. i think my sister adds sour cream to hers if that floats your boat!

and um i couldn't sit still and work on my paper today sooooo i made hetty's soup (my gf) aka vegetable soup. its sweet potato, and whatever vegetables you have lying around (for me, usually onions, carrots, celery, bell peppers). onion in butter, then add garlic when they are translucent, add in herbs of your choice (basil, oregano, thyme, bay leaves for me) add in the rest, plus chicken bullion, bring to a boil and then simmer until soft, and blend and add in heavy cream.

uhhh in the future ill try to post my recipes as i make them!

#soups are so easy #i love soup #was antsy alllll day

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someone-271 · 6 months

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Intro post!

I'm bi, she/her, and kind of a mess. (Like this blog)

Books: Osemanverse, Hunger Games, getting into Percy Jackson, Maze Runner (kinda), Harry Potter (I don't support JK Rowling)

Movies/shows: most Marvle movies, Star wars (the first 6), I love the spider-verse movies, classic Disney, Never Have I Ever, Station 19, Heartstopper, Young Royals

Music: Girl In Red, Taylor Swift, Sabrina Carpenter, Tate McRae, Jordi, Natalie Jane, Stellar, JVKE, Levent Geinger, Alan Walker, Rihanna, Arctic Monkeys, and a lot more.

Things I love: bread, traveling, the ocean, dole whip, ice-cream, chocolate, lasagna, voice-to-text, hunting and fishing, boating, my dog, my mutuals, exploring nature, winter, going on hikes/jogs, mountains, animals, anyone reading this 💕

I don't like: spiders, kangaroos (I will not explain), learning about the government, maturing, spending too much time one thing, most people, feet

I hate: homophobic people, transphobic people, terfs, creeps, pedos, racism, anyone who discriminates against a minority or any kind. (Everyone listed will be blocked)

I'm bisexual, and this blog is completely safe for lgbtq+ and all people.

I love you all and your amazing💕

#intro post 3

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gumballavocadoharry · 1 year

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Part of me: Bionic dad Harry:

*Mentions of dark events, accident, death, trauma, angst and some gore and mutilation mentioning*

Rowan was hurt. Like seriously hurt. But not as Strikerbolt, as himself. He was in a accident with a couple of kids from school, resulting in a couple of them getting critically injured and one, Jake Finney, had died. It was still traumatizing to say the least once Rowan had regained consciousness and saw his body laying there....lifeless, bruised, mangled and bloody. The sight of it was macabre even for the eyes of the young superhero, who was used to seeing lurid hair-raising sights.

Rown could still picture the image of seeing the alpha of the school that every girl lusted after and every guy envied, body mutilated from the smash of the car into the side of the semi truck that took his head and half his torso with it. Rowan remembered the metal taste in his mouth that night as he was catching his breath on the floor of the backseat of the convertible car. Jake was driving it. Guilt ate into him like someone chewing on the cob of an apple once finished.

"It should've been me," were his typical thoughts, "I'm the superhero...I could've done something since I chose to be in that car!"

But Harry doesn't know.

Rowan made it his mission to keep it a secret from his father, in tragic fear that his father would blame the 'cool' kids he wanted so badly to be apart of. So he couldn't take that risk and decided stiff up a lip and suffer in silence. Afterall, bionic superheroes had to learn how to fight their own battles. And this was one that was hitting Rowan head on. He was forced to swallow down any trace of Friday night and continue on as nothing happened.

"In breaking news, there was an accident on Crevage Road by Bridgefill farmings., where three teenagers were critically injured and one died in the crash on impact. The teen was partially decapitated and half of his waist, including his left arm and shoulder had been crushed off. Investigators say that he died on impact and likely didn't feel anything."

Harry stared at the Tv screen, shaking his head, still holding the remote in his hand. Rowan stood on the staircase, hindering his tears and sobs. He gulped harshly at the lump in his throat that wanted to cry for those kids. It was his fault....he should've stepped in a saved at least some of them right?

Harry sensed someone behind him and diverted his attention to the staircase. "Rowan, I'm sorry you had to see that!" He shook his head and walked the rest of the staircase. "It's fine. It's been all over the school webpage." His voice cracked. Rowan cleared his throat to hide evidence of any personal remorse that could make his father chary. Rowan had seen more than enough.

Harry threw an arm around him and held him close. "I know....it's gruesome....and I wish we could've been there, but unfortunately you can't save em all." Harry held his son tighter. "They were around your age weren't they?" Rowan nodded, looking down as to not make contact with Harry. "One of them was Jake Finney....he was the one who died.....he was the most popular kid at school."

Harry furrowed his eyebrows and looked down to Rowan. "You knew him?" He nodded. "His picture is on a memorial page too. The other ones are still in comas." Harry shook his head. "Want to talk about it?" Rowan shook his head. He took a deep breath, hopelessly trying to numb his brain from going in a million different places.

"Want lasagna for dinner?" And just like that the subject changed, to Rowan's great amnesty. "Sure." He simply worded.

It was later that night, when Rowan was on his bed just staring out at the foggy blanched moon that had a thick duvet of peacoat blue surrounding it, like a boat in the middle of a cerulean ocean. To him, it was symbolic, like he was a loner in the night, somewhere lost in the waves of it...pondering his reasoning for why he made the choice he did.

Rowan couldn't deny that it simple, pure luck....chance even, the right place at the right time in the unforeseen tragedy that spared him his life. He could've been Jake. He could've been Jessica, Maxine, Perry....but he wasn't. He was adapt to the dusk yet because of his trained sleep mode to be only a little after midnight. But that night, his lassitude got the better of him which resulted in him falling flat onto the floor of the long car and cheated death when the convertible went under the semi truck.

He managed his way out with his super strength and called 911 once he realized everyone else was unconscious. He was seen as a bystander rather than a victim of the incident. He was glad about that. It left the main attraction to be placed on the actual victims....the ones who were hurt...and the one who died. But that night haunted him like a ghost under his bed. He couldn't shake it.

Tears showed themselves again but this time, they escaped through the flesh of his fears. Rowan's heart was numb. Deep down the feeling of cheating death should've felt like an accomplishment but instead came off as betrayal. He was in the same car, so he should be dead or at best in critical condition like the others. But survivors guilt wasn't playing fair.

To Rowan, he wanted to believe it was a 'Final Destination' type domino effect. He hoped for his time to come and death would take him maybe in the shower, or while he's sleeping. Maybe on a mission.

It was a grim thing to desire for sure. But Rowan 'needed' to see the other side. "Rowan?" Harry's head peeked in. "Why are you still awake?" He shrugged. "I'm not tired." Harry's paternal sense went off in his head. His gut feeling was screaming at him that something was wrong with his little boy.

He took a seat on the bed next to Rowan. "Bud, you can tell me if something's bothering you right?" Rowan glanced at him. "Why do you think something's wrong?"

"I know you Row...and I can just tell when something's off." Suddenly the vibe in the room changed. Rowan looked down, eyebrows furrowing, eyes becoming gloomy and mouth expression turning dim.

"Where do people go when they die?" Harry was take aback by this. "W-what?" Rowan shook his head, not moving an inch to look up.

Harry hugged Rowan without a single word. His heartbeat caught up with him, once he realized something was very seriously weighing on Rowan's mind. The boy sniffled. His beseeching eyes turned to his father who's eyebrows had furrowed and whose eyes were now intoxicated with deep concernment.

There was no turning back now. Rowan had no escape plan to getaway from his father's intense distress. Harry could've mistaken the look on Rowan's face as a murder confession. But no it was worse. "Dad..."

Harry held Rowan's hands in his and made gentle eye contact with him. The boy choked on some uprooting sobs. "I-I-I was in the car with those kids on the news," He thrusted out. "I was in the car when we crashed.....I was on the floor of the car asleep.........and then I woke up to a loud crash. I realized the doors were jammed, so I used my strength to get out but I realized that everyone was badly hurt and unconscious.......except Jake." He cried, sobbed loudly.

"He was dead! His body was in pieces! His arm was scattered around with his waist somewhere on the hood of the car! His head was almost off his body! HE'S DEAD AND EVERYONE ELSE MIGHT AS WELL BE! INCLUDING ME! I WAS IN THAT CAR AND DID NOTHING! I'M NO SUPERHERO! I lucked out, cheated death and for what?! I called the police but....that didn't change anything! It's not going to bring Jake back! Or take Perry off life support! GOD KNOWS MAXINE IS PROBABLY BRAIN DEAD BY NOW.....and then there's Jessica......sweet, innocent Jess.....oh I found out by some classmates that she may not have two legs anymore when she comes back to school! IF she does!" Rowan spat in rage, finally letting that anguished breath out.

"Oh, and then here I am.....Rowan.....alive...unscratched.....I was researching bionic lifespans and body tolerance, and it was twice as much than those other kids! I shouldn't be here! I shouldn't be eating, or sleeping or breathing! I should be dead," Harry watched in horror with tears falling freely down his cool cheeks.

"Dead." Rowan repeated. Rowan broke down now. Loud sobs turned to screams as he was on the floor on his knees, hands squeezing his hair and face planted to the floor. Harry got up and bear hugged the boy tightly and cried with him. "Shh, it'll be alright my sweet boy. It'll be okay." Rowan turned and instantaneously wheeled his dad in for a big hug. "Why didn't you say something earlier baby?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. I guess I thought I knew, but I didn't."

The next few nights, was the same for Rowan. He was awake, pondering his existence. Asking why he survived and the usual questions that he never received answers to. With his unburdened honesty coming out all at once, he was summoned down to the police station to identify the victims and tell the story of what happened. Harry was with him the whole time and shouldered nothing but endless hugs and reassurance.

A soft knock at the door made him flinch. "It's just me Row," Harry let himself in and sat next to Rowan on the bed. Rowan no doubt felt a big chunk of the world had been lifted from his heart, yet it still hung heavy on some days.

"How you doing?" His father, kindly asked. Rowan looked to his dad with hopeful eyes. "Better."

Part 2????????

(Well duh)

#harry styles #harry styles imagine #dad!harry #dadrry #single dad harry #harry styles son #son #bionic dad #bionic power #i love u #part of me #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfictions #car accident

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